


Sweet Nothings

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you even listening?" Porthos asks. (The answer is no, naturally.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Nothings

**Author's Note:**

> AO3 needs a "sappy bullshit" tag tbh, because this was supposed to be part of fulfilling a prompt for Aramis helping Porthos to learn to read and instead it became random makeouts. (I mean, not that this is a bad thing, of course - perish the very thought!)
> 
> Anyway, my point is: shmoops. I'm embracing my evolution into shipper trash.

If Aramis is desperately, embarrassingly honest with himself: he’s an idiot. And he knows it. He’s so well aware of it. And yet, half-drunk on the wine Porthos brought to his little apartment, he can’t really mind that much that he’s an idiot. After a successful weekend with Madame Julianne Fontaine, as was his custom, he has the letter lined out for Porthos to read aloud, knowing how desperately Porthos craves new things to read – and he knows he’s an idiot. 

And while he’d normally delight in seeing the way Porthos’ words stumble together as he works through some of Madame’s more floral of writing, now all he can do is pretend to listen because he’s focusing on the abrupt slump of Porthos’ mouth, the way his lips part and form around the words, his tongue clicking to his mouth, pressing against his teeth. For one who delights in the chance to practice his reading, he sounds as if he’s been reading his entire life – his voice melodious, deep and honeyed. His lips keep doing the most interesting things around his Rs, and the muscles of his neck and throat move so nicely around some of his vowels. And then he reads _I hope that you are thinking of me fondly_ and Aramis can only see the way the tip of his tongue flicks out between his teeth when he says the soft, hissing words, his eyes flickering up to cast Aramis the type of look that he knows so well (the “really, Aramis, are you _thinking_ of her?” kind of look, teasing and bright). 

“Mm,” Aramis says, belatedly to an expectant pause, slumping a bit further in his seat as he shifts, crossing his legs. “Do go on, my dear Porthos.” 

Porthos lifts an eyebrow from where he sits across from Aramis. “Are you even listening?” 

Aramis has the half-completed task of cleaning his gun set out before him and he doesn’t even remember what the next step is because all he can think of is the way that Porthos’ lips pillow together around his words. 

“Aramis? You alright?” There’s that _R_ again, and those lips pressing together around the _you_ , and a pleasant shudder ripples down Aramis’ spine as he lifts his wineglass to his mouth. 

“Why should I not be?”

“You’re not listening,” Porthos says, rolling his eyes.

“I am,” Aramis protests. “Avidly.”

“Yeah? What did I just say?” 

Aramis smiles a little and feels warm and flushed, and he realizes that he is perhaps a little more than half-drunk. “You said, ‘are you listening?’ Which I am. As I said.” 

Porthos’ lips curl. Aramis loves that expression on him, loves it more when he’s the cause of it. Porthos’ mouth is one of his most expressive features, the twist of it or the thin-pressed lips or the slight, almost-gone curve of a smile conveying more to him than a hundred words could from someone else. Full and beautiful lips, parted in a wide smile, dimpling up at the corners. 

And it’s not just his voice, though he does love that, of course, especially when it drops low and rumbling in his chest – rather, it’s the way he deliberates over his words sometimes – the way they seem to flow out of him so gently, boisterous and unrestrained, and yet Aramis knows how he struggles with his language, as if now that he has won himself the freedom to speak his mind amongst his friends and fellow soldiers he is determined not to cheapen it with wasted sounds. And yet, Aramis has never known anyone as free and warm as Porthos, smiling mouth and chosen words – and the unchosen words that rush out of him when he is surprised, delighted, or even in his anger. 

And then Porthos says, “ _Aramis._ ” 

Aramis lets his eyes fall shut as a hopeless, smitten laugh bubbles free, the tingling of his skin seeming to coalesce into a hot curl in the pit of his stomach, coiling there in a dark, heady promise with the weight of that single word – his _name_ – on Porthos’ tongue. His favorite sound in the entire world, really. 

“I’ve been listening,” he protests upon opening his eyes and seeing Porthos’ incredulous, over-fond look, hearing the words trickle out of him like wine, like honesty (and if he’s honest with himself, what a fool he is – what a fool he’ll be, ever time, for Porthos). He struggles only for a moment to rise from his chair and then sways across the room, remarkably steady given that he can’t remember having finished his wineglass, can’t remember anything but the low glide of Porthos’ smile, growing wider with each step Aramis takes closer to him.

Porthos sets down the letter from Aramis’ would-be mistress and then he looks up at him where Aramis stands above him – and there’s that sweet, half-laughing curve to his mouth, and Aramis touches the corner of it with clumsy fingers and Porthos laughs lightly, lets his lips drag across the pads of his fingertips, nips so lightly that Aramis almost wonders if he’d done it at all. 

So Aramis sighs out and drapes himself in Porthos’ lap. Porthos’ hands come to his waist immediately, protective, sliding around to the curve of his spine. Aramis makes himself comfortable, his knees on either side of hips, his chest pressed to his, his mouth brushing over his beautiful, wonderful, smiling mouth. 

“You’re drunk,” Porthos laughs, and the sound is rich and deep and more intoxicating than any wine Aramis could have been drinking. 

“I’ve been listening,” he repeats, not at all sorry for the wine he knows is on his breath, not at all hesitant as he cups that beautiful, strong jaw in his hands, encouraging Porthos’ lips to part by pressing his thumbs there lightly, feeling the soft pillow of his mouth, presses just enough for his tongue to slip between them. “But,” he says, quietly, eventually, nipping his full lower lip as he draws back just enough to speak, “I must admit to not having heard a single word, my dear.” 

Porthos laughs again, low and rumbling, and Aramis grins at the eager stroke of Porthos hands down his back. He tangles his own in Porthos’ hair, bumping his nose indulgently against his. 

“Then allow me to repeat myself,” Porthos murmurs, voice dropping delightfully on the last word, and proceeds to put his clever tongue and smiling mouth to much more satisfying uses than Aramis’ letters.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found [on tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) if need be!


End file.
